Hundreds of homes sit
Cookie cutter produced
With manicured red rose bushes
And fences painted by immigrants
The suburban white breads
Flock to these copycat communities
Eager to fit in with their pale skinned
Blue eyes babies and mother-father pair
It’s all pleasant and just a bit
Creepy; the lack of contrast
How are we to manage happiness
With such tasteless lives?
-x-
I’d like to take a hammer
To these mass produced homes
And hack their roses to mush or
Kick their fences to splinters
To make a **** original piece
No matter how bizarre or damaged
So that our skin color, our *** would be
The last thing to be seen as ‘weird’
Maybe then we’ll be content with the contrast
In a home that just breathes our presence
Even if we’re out and about; living
No part of us, even our home, will conform
To the standards of society